


Majesties

by Gracie_Girl87



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOSF SPOILERS, Book 3: A Court of Wings and Ruin, Book 4: A Court of Silver Flames, Canon Compliant, F/M, Forced Relationship, Mating Bond, Other, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Spoilers, Spoilers for Book 4: A Court of Silver Flames, acowar spoilers, domestic abuse, implied turmoil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 02:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30048831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracie_Girl87/pseuds/Gracie_Girl87
Summary: After a heated discussion amongst his Inner Circle, Rhys struggles to sleep peacefully when there is much to do. The near future is littered with possibilities. Possibilities he cannot bring himself to ponder on for any great length of time, lest he lose himself to panic and grief. With not one, but three Made weapons in his arsenal, Rhys has been presented with a choice. A choice his dreams are more than happy to deliberate on his behalf.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Rhysand's Father/ Rhysand's Mother
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Majesties

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [HisAndHisAlone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisAndHisAlone/works)  
> for the incredible beta reading! You rock! Seriously ya'll, I don't know where I'd be without this awesome proof-reading. I am forever grateful.

Rhys flinched in his sleep. 

It was hardly a movement at all, just a slight twitch of his right hand, but even so, his dreams began to infect him again. After five hundred years of life, Rhys had become close companions with death far too often. Not as intimately as Cassian or Azriel had become, but he considered himself a close third in comparison to his brothers. 

On and off, Rhys had conducted decades of his own research, exploring the many stories of mind-lulling from the lands of Xian. The library beneath the House of Wind only had so many books about Xian, and none harbored the information he needed. He considered asking Thesan what was known of the ancient methods that could potentially give a person the ability to master their own dreams, but he had been young and couldn’t find a suitable reason to ask the High Lord of Dawn such things. Especially when Rhysand hadn’t been High Lord himself, at least not yet. 

Inquiring about these hypothetical matters passively was damn near impossible in front of the High Lord of Night. Rhys had tried nudging the conversation into that particular direction once, but it only earned him a glare that promised death from his father. A glare that reminded Rhys he was only present because he had nearly begged his father to accompany him to the Dawn Court as a learning experience. That, and his mother had insisted it would be good for the two of them to take a trip together. His father didn’t often find himself in the habit of rejecting his mother’s requests, but that didn’t mean he would play nice on the trip either. Long story short, no information had been gathered on the subject of dreams. Not a book or title to be had. Not even a scrap of parchment. 

The columns of Rhys’ neck rose on his next breath, then settled. No wings tonight. Despite the chill in the wind this afternoon that threatened an early winter, Rhys only donned his feather light black sleep shorts. Much to Feyre’s delight, he couldn’t stand the closeness of blankets or sheets this past month, which meant she could curl up under a fortified nest of comforters without needing to share. He didn’t mind it. Not with the baby beginning to show more and more with each passing day. His son.  _ Their _ son. There was something more than pride that filled Rhys' heart when he thought of him. The future held a great many things for them… he prayed.

The star-flecked smoke clouding his dreams began to swirl and burst with images. Sensations of touch and smell entranced his memory until the chilling damp air of the prison fogged his breath and he was suddenly leaning on the threshold of the Bone Carver’s cell. His arms were lazily crossed close to the chest as he heard the ever-differing voice of the Carver, though the spine chilling curiosity in his tone remained eternal.

“Are you frightened of it, too, Rhysand?” He had asked, referring to the Ouroboros mirror. 

But Rhysand's subconscious began to wonder what he had truly been referring to, because he was afraid… of so many things. The current one being the small babe nestled so close to him on the bed inside his mate. His mate. His  _ mate _ . And those wings… his son had wings. 

_ “Do you think she’ll have wings?” He heard himself ask. _

_ Rhys turned from the Carver’s threshold in his mind to see his mother in the House of Wind, rocking herself in a chair specially made for her. The back was handsomely carved to accommodate her precious wings. Wings he had caught his father admiring from a distance often enough to know that the Illyrian blood coursing through his veins was something to be proud of.  _

_ “We don’t know what it is yet, Rhysand.” His mother crooned, stroking gentle hands up and down the length of her belly, swollen with child. _

_ “It’s a girl.” He smiled, kneeling in front of her chair.  _

_ She smacked him playfully over the head, rustling the blue-black locks of his hair. _

_ “Rhysand!” She scolded, “Your father and I want it to be a surprise!” _

_ “I refuse to believe that Father would rather be surprised than know the sex of the babe.”  _

_ “I’ll have you know that a few choice words had your father agreeing with me in a heartbeat.” _

_ “I refuse to believe that as well.” _

_ “Well, it’s true. So don’t go around using your Daematic abilities to stick your nose in other people’s business.” _

_ “I’d rather have my nose in a book than in father’s business.” Rhys chuckled, bracing his arms across his mother’s lap to bring the belly closer to him. “And you wound me, mother, insinuating that I would dive into her mind without your permission.” _

_ “If you haven’t done so already, then how do you know the babe is female?” _

_ “I just know.” He smiled, placing an all too delicate kiss to his mother’s stomach. “I just know it.” _

_ “Mother save me.” She sighed, threading her fingers through her son’s hair in that way that made his face kind and soft. A moment or two tiptoed past them until she finally whispered, “Is that something you’re able to do?” _

_ “Hm? What?” _

_ “Are you able to look into a mind that has not yet been born into the world?” _

_ Rhys paused, both in the remembered past of his dream and the present, but he answered honestly.  _

_ “I… I’ve never tried.” _

_ His mother hedged a quick look over her shoulder before turning back to him with a sly smile.  _

_ “Your father’s not here. Let’s have a quick peek.” _

_ “Truly, mother, you don’t mind?” _

_ “No.” She shrugged. “I’m curious to know. Aren’t you?” When he nodded, she pointed her finger at his nose, almost close enough to strike. “But if you find out the sex, you keep it to yourself, understand?” _

_ “Come on, it’s me.” He drawled with a wink and she sent up another skyward prayer. _

_ He wetted his lips, placing his broad calloused hand over the child within, then closed his eyes. Rhythmic thumping, unmistakably the child’s heart, roared beneath his flattened palm and into his mind. In the pathways he could only assume as unformed thoughts, he trekked in further and further, closer. There were no mental shields to speak of minus the one that suddenly named itself curiosity. He let it swirl around him like smoke on a faint wind, dancing up the length of his body. Or at least, the body his abilities could present to the unborn mind now seeing someone for the very first time. There was a string there, a thread of glowing fiber between Rhys and his beautiful sibling slumbering so close to him. Sleeping, but aware.  _

_ With the smallest breath of his power, he sent the enormity of his love down the channel and waited. The bond fell quiet so Rhys made to step out, until something like laughter slammed into him, so hard that his hand shifted over his mother’s stomach.  _

_ “Can you sense their mind, Rhys? Can you hear them?” _

_ Immense happiness flooded his presence there. It filled him to the brim. He might very well burst into hysterical laughter that could frighten his mother were he to lose any grip on his composure. His eyes fluttered open, tears already spilling down his cheeks. _

_ “Say something again.” He whispered, as if the act of speaking too loudly might scare the child.  _

_ “What?”  _

_ The child rolled beneath his hand and Rhys chuckled. _

_ “Mother, your voice brings them so much joy. Please say something again.” _

_ “May I see?” She asked and Rhys nodded. _

_ Bridging her through the bond to the winding colors and sounds of her womb, Rhys guided his mother onto the threshold of her unborn child’s mind. _

_ “Mother, allow me to introduce you to your child?” He whispered near her rounded ear. “Say something.” He asked of her again.  _

_ “Oh, my sweet child.” She quietly wept. “I love you so much. Just a few more weeks and you’ll be in my arms little one. Just a few more weeks.” _

_ Their nostrils filled with the child’s overwhelming scent of unrelenting delight. Rhys could have sworn he heard the echoes of laughter before escorting his mother out, and just like that, he was kneeling in front of her again. He begrudgingly slid his hand from her belly, completely content to feel this way forever. His knees felt weak and his vision blurred with tears upon tears slipping down his face, same as his mother. She wept into the sleeves of her jacket, begging that they could do it again, but Rhys shook his head, resolving to let the child rest.  _

_ “She’s beautiful.” His mother cried, wiping her nose along her wrist. Rhys offered her his pocket handkerchief to which she snatched and blew into before her brows suddenly cut to a threatening angle that had Rhys flinching to block a slap to the head. “You weren’t supposed to tell me! It’s a girl!? A little girl!? You- you- you no good-” _

_ She sent him flying back to the floor before rocking herself to stand. Rhys propped himself up on his elbows, completely at the mercy of his mother as she flared her impressive wingspan out from her back. She knocked a side table and vase over in the process, but she didn’t seem to care. Not with that world-ending rage now rippling across her face.  _

_ “It wasn’t me, Mother, I swear it. Our minds scented the answer when she laughed. It wasn’t me. It was her!” _

_ “She isn’t even born yet and you’re shifting blame to your little sister already!?” _

_ “Me? She isn’t even born yet and you’re taking her side, just like you always will.” He laughed in that boyish way he so often did. _

_ That wouldn’t save him. Not this time. Not as she thrusted her wings to launch herself at him, straddling his chest to slap him and smack him and strike him wherever he chose not to block. Still, he giggled and snorted until her overly-pregnant wrath shifted into her own horrendous laughter. This wasn’t a fight, not really. The surprise had been spoiled for her, but hopefully his father wouldn’t find out and- _

_ “What is the meaning of this?” His father scolded from where he winnowed near the glass doors leading to the veranda.  _

_ Any heightened emotion was felt through their mating bond. If his mother sneezed too hard his father was instantly there nowadays to check in on the child's progress. His father and mother were never a good match, but Rhys had to hand it to him. He was there when it counted most, especially during these final months.  _

_ “Father, I-” _

_ His mother smacked him a few more times before the High Lord strode to her side to pick her up off the floor. Even in lifting her away, she still kicked for Rhys with an obnoxious giggle, which he blocked with an elbow. The Lord of Night was not amused. He set her down, rooting her to the floor by her shoulders to face him fully. _

_ “That's enough. Now calm down before I feed you to the Autumn Court hounds,” he threatened, in that mollified voice of his.  _

_ Not once had he raised his voice to her. He never had and he never would, but his face always read something different. As if he wished he could bring himself to do it. Wriggling in his iron grip, Rhys' mother scoffed her disinterest on the matter. _

_ “They’ll have to catch me first.” She smirked with a wink.  _

_ He straightened to his full height, as if that would nullify the wildness burning in her ever-glittering eyes.  _

_ "Perhaps my beasts beneath the hewn city might suit you better." He mused with a voice that was far from pleasant or sweet. _

_ "Empty threats." She drawled boorishly. "You always bring up those damned things below the mountain." _

_ "With good reason." He seethed, his hands hardening over her shifting shoulders.  _

_ A scathing glare in Rhysand’s direction had him scrambling to his feet to straighten his jacket and lapels. His father raked an all-too-knowing look over him with a scowl that could bring any vicious creature to its knees, begging for mercy even in innocence. _

_ “What did you do?” He ground out. _

_ “Nothing I didn’t ask him to,” his mother purred, then ripped herself from his hands to stalk down the hall for the dining room. _

_ “What is that supposed to mean?” He growled after her. When the only answer she threw back was the leathery snap of her wings closing shut behind her slender shoulders, he hummed a deep growl of frustration. Looking to Rhys once more, he dragged a rough hand back through his hair then pulled his vest straight. “Whatever you did, don’t do it again until the child is born, am I understood?”  _

_ When Rhys nodded solemnly, his father sighed, then trailed after his mother to discuss whatever it was those two ever talked about. The High Lord of Night was on edge since the pregnancy had been scented on his mate months ago. Rhys understood the basic primal instinct that told him to remain close and protect her, but not like his father did.  _

The mating bond amplified it somehow in a way he couldn’t fathom; not until now, that is. But the mirthful longing that used to swim behind his father’s eyes didn’t quite match the permanent scowl that had always marred his face. Nothing about his mother and father had ever matched. Ever. How they’d even found the common decency needed to conceive children was beyond him. 

He didn't want to think about it for too long, but perhaps the mating bond had its ways to shine a light where night triumphant ruled supreme. Maybe, just maybe, there had been moments between them when the world didn't matter. Moments where everything fell away and there were only two people there, together. At least, he hoped there were times like that, if only for his mother's sake… and memory. 

What he would give just to see his mother standing before him, young and strong and fierce. What he would give to hold his precious little sister for the first time again, her wings so tiny and soft, bloodied from her birthing bed. She was so small in his arms. The delicate size of her head cradled in the palm of his hand was enough to make any grown male cry. He had been there for it, much to his father’s disagreement on the matter, but once again, his mother’s request had granted him an approach. 

Bloodied.  _ Bloodied _ . The word clanged through him so awkwardly until he heard the Bone Carver's mischievous purr from behind him.

“Oh, I much prefer you bloodied up.” He had said to Rhys after the battle at Adriata. 

“Pick something else.” Feyre snapped, refusing to be led on a fool’s errand. 

Rhys turned back at the sound of his mate, so exhausted from her first battle. His baby sister sifted through his fingers like dust, the memory of her falling away like an arm-full of sand. The Bone Carver’s life sucking stare slowly rolled to Rhys, as if his head were woodenly placed upon his shoulders. It unsettled something in his stomach, realizing that the dream and the reality of this moment stamped in time were now separating somehow. The Carver hadn’t looked at him like this that day. His gaze had been fixed upon Feyre, not him. Ice pricked the nerves in Rhysand’s hands and toes as the Bone Carver’s eyes rolled back into his head and did not come back. 

“What would you give me?” It murmured.

Rhys looked back to his mother on the birthing bed, bloodied and so, so tired, but smiling. She was always just… so happy. A tear rolled down his cheek as the Bone Carver pushed on. 

“Riches do me no good down here. Power holds no sway over the stone.” He chuckled.

_ Rhysand’s sister, his dear dear sister, was swaddled and passed to him once more, her delicate wings rebelling to stay hidden within the purple blanket. He choked a laugh before placing the tip of his pointer finger in the mighty grasp of her chubby little fist. He knew then and there that his mother would always, always take her side… and he didn’t care. Not for the life of him would he care. Not if every minute with her felt this good, this pure.  _

_ The memory held true, as Rhysand passed her back to Madja who in turn placed her in the arms of his mother, smiling broadly. When his gaze lifted to his father, the pointed look at the door was dismissal enough. Gently kissing his mother on her sweaty brow, Rhys then bowed at the waist to his father with a heartfelt congratulations, to which his father nodded in return. Hand over his chest, Rhys winked at the babe nestled so close to his mother’s breast with a snarky promise that he would raise her up to be trouble and headed for the door.  _

_ In looking back before the door had truly clicked shut, Rhys saw the miraculous gesture of his father working himself onto the bed next to his mate, despite the blood. His mother’s wing stretched open to greet him and when Rhys closed the door he heard the only good thing his father had ever said, ever. _

_ “She’s beautiful.”  _

And he had been right. Gods, she was beautiful and courageous and a shit ton of trouble. The age difference between her and Rhys didn’t mean a Gods-damned thing, they were siblings through and through. They argued and fought and clawed at each other tooth and nail, but every day had been a gift. Every damn day. And what would he give to live it all again? What would he give?

“What about your firstborn?” The Bone Carver hummed with that secret smile of his.

Rhys whipped his head around to that boy gesturing at himself. The boy Feyre had shown him, mind to mind, on their way out of the prison. The boy now sleeping mere inches from him on the bed, all curled up in his mother’s womb beneath all of those obnoxiously fluffy blankets she loved so much. Feyre. His mate. His beloved High Lady sleeping so soundly after everything that has happened to her, to them, to the world. Just as he had done before, Rhys slid his attention to her standing there in the cold deep Earth of the Carver’s cell, her back ramrod straight.

_ Not just any boy then. _ He spoke into her mind.

_ No. _ She replied, her cheeks filling with color.  _ Not just any boy. _

“He’s not just any boy.” Rhys suddenly heard his father say.

Rhys turned to see him, stepping out of the Carver’s cell and into the House of Wind yet again, only… he had very few memories of his Mother and Father’s room before they had agreed they would both prefer their own. 

_ Rhysand’s father sat lounging in a chair before the fireplace while his mother brushed at her unruly mane, probably from some midnight flight from which she had just returned, over the shimmering city far below. Lounging didn’t seem close enough to describe his father. Everything he did had a measure of regal civility to it. Even in the fighting rings, the High Lord of Night somehow kept his kingly serenity about him. He stirred at his evening tea, not caring to set down his book as the dream of him said again, _

_ “He’s not just any boy. I will not have my son rolling in the mud with Illyrians like some sort of dog.” _

_ The hairbrush was thrown faster than the untrained eye could see, but it halted midair, three feet away from the High Lord’s head. He hadn’t even bothered to look up from his book as he slowly floated it back to his mate on some phantom wind of his, gently placing it down on the pearl colored vanity.  _

_ “Careful, lady.” He purred, almost jokingly. “I’ve misted far too many of your brushes. I would hate to deplete our coffers purchasing more on behalf of your unchecked temper.”  _

_ “My people are not dogs.” She ground out.  _

_ “Some are evidence to the contrary.” _

_ “So they’re all just mindless beasts to you, is that it?” _

_ He didn’t say anything to that. If he agreed, then what would that make her? She stared at the back of his head until her eyes hurt, then picked up the brush once more to work out the ends of her dark onyx hair. A moment or so dragged by, enough for the clock to be heard ticking from the end of the hall when she slammed the brush down in front of the mirror.  _

_ “I’m taking him to Windhaven whether you like it or not.” _

_ “No, you’re not.” He said, his monotone voice implying just how through he was with this particular conversation. “Rhysand will remain here in Velaris for training. End of discussion.” _

_ “Because the Illyrians are just a bunch of dogs.” She mocked.  _

_ “That is not what I said.” _

_ “It’s what you implied.” She bristled, her wings flaring slightly.  _

_ Another minute dragged by as Rhys’s mother carefully watched her mate through the mirror. She resumed her brushing just as he picked up his cup of tea for a mild sip. The moment it touched his lips, she crooned to herself in the mirror.  _

_ “Who knew High Lords were in the business of fucking dogs.” _

_ His eyes whipped to her so fast, he nearly spilled his tea down his lap. She frowned a bit that her plan hadn’t worked, but that didn’t matter anyway. Not as he surged to his feet, his tea cup and saucer immediately misting away. The book, chair and side table instantly went. Her hairbrush vanished from her hand like ash through her fingers as he intentionally stomped each and every one of his footsteps to close the distance between them. Only merciless, cold violence danced in his eyes as she rose to meet him, chin held high. The tips of her wings were a few inches taller than him, but her eyes only came to the hollow of his neck.  _

_ She would not yield a single step to him. Not one fucking step as he towered over her, shadows of night rushing from him like tidal waves, engulfing the room in terrifying darkness. The sweeping tendrils of inky black essence coiled around her ankles, wrists and wings, but she made no motion to fight it. She made no motion to fight his vicious hands as they captured her hair into fists, forcing her eyes to meet his own. _

_ “I told you to be careful, lady.” He growled, his voice still low and hushed.  _

_ “I guess that means you haven’t trained me well enough, High Lord.” She taunted, mocking his title through her teeth. _

_ He blinked, not able to see what angle she now played against him. Was that a wisecrack implying that he was more master to her than mate… or was it some sort of innuendo that they hadn’t fucked enough? Either way, it implied that she was just some sort of dog to him and nothing more. His fingers gripped the roots of her hair ever tighter, but she did not hiss. She would let him see just how strong she was, even if he was the only reason she still had her wings.  _

_ Everyday she would see past his quiet cruelty, if only for the kindness he bestowed in letting her keep her wings. Her freedom. Her heritage. She was a warrior. He had to know it; the Illyrians were a strong race. A proud race, and they would not be cast aside with the dogs and the beasts, least of all by their High Lord. They were his Court. Her people. Could he not see the warrior standing before him? Could he not see the sliver of Enalius’s spirit that lived in each and every one of them? Was there really that large of a rift between their peoples, even with their union? _

_ “You think I wanted an Illyrian peasant female for a mate?” He groaned, his canines slightly lengthening thanks to his hidden beast form. _

_ “You think I wanted some pompous high fae bastard as mine?” She snarled right back.  _

_ “So, that’s what I am to you.” He growled, his eyes glowing colors she had never seen before. “Some hound fucking high fae bastard, is that what you think I am?” _

_ Despite the shackles of midnight cuffing her ankles to the floor, she muscled her way to tiptoe closer to his ever growing fangs that threatened to end her.  _

_ “You have done nothing, nothing to prove yourself otherwise.” _

_ “Then allow me to remedy that.” He snarled before retracting his fangs to capture her mouth with his.  _

_ She hummed a small moan of protest before surrendering herself to the kiss. It wasn’t kind or polite, the way he smothered her. His hands released their brutal grip in her hair to slide down her back, carefully avoiding the roots of her wings to grab her waist and bring her closer. With the cuffs of shadow still restraining her, she looked awkward in his arms, but her face said something else entirely, as if the mating bond had been pleading for them to touch. Just… touch. Slowly rotating, the High Lord broke away from the kiss, panting.  _

_ She dropped to her feet as the shadows of smoke and night retreated somewhere behind his broad shoulders and he made to step out of the forced embrace. Thrusting her wings, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his strong neck to bring him back down. With another claiming kiss sealed against his lips, he melted. They just stood there kissing and kissing and kissing until he finally took her wrists in his hands to step away from her.  _

_ "Enough." He said breathlessly, chest heaving.“Does this appease my lady?" _

_ “It satisfies.” She smiled, all too knowingly. "But you have made yourself very clear, High Lord, which one of us is the beast." _

_ When he rose an inquisitive brow she mimicked his breathless panting, complete with her tongue hanging out. He threw her hands away from him, dragging a quivering hand back through his blue-black hair, as if the bond beckoned for him to keep touching her. Perhaps exposing his fangs hadn't been the best response to her heated remarks.  _

_ “You’re insufferable.” He snarled through grinding teeth. _

_ “No, I’m Illyrian. I know the difference is difficult to find, but you’re clever enough, so I’m sure you can manage just fine.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she rose a silencing finger to his lips, which he immediately batted away. “Our son is almost eight years old. I will not have him living half his life without the other.” _

_ “He remains here in the city until his power is better understood.” _

_ “I cannot accept that and you know it.” _

_ “Then what do you suggest we do? Train him as an Illyrian warrior and neglect his other studies? He is a High Lord’s son, not some-” _

_ He stopped himself from whatever beast he was about to offhandedly name. She blew out a breath, recognizing the progress they had made, but she wasn’t letting this go. Not until it was settled.  _

_ “Rhysand has shown that he possesses Illyrian magic. Do you understand how rare that is in a half-blood and at his age?” _

_ The High Lord let his face show that it was probably the power from his bloodline that helped amplify the rarity of that trait to shine through. His mate did her best not to roll her eyes, not really caring who the power came from, just as long as it was channeled and nurtured with the utmost care. She reached for his hand, holding it to her heart.  _

_ “Please.” She whispered. “Please do this for him.” _

_ “I make no promises-” _

_ “For me then.” She pleaded and he froze. “Please, you saved my wings. They were my only pride and joy before he came into our lives. Just please, please… let him understand what those wings mean to him. … for me.”  _

_He couldn’t help but notice that her mated union to the High Lord of Night hadn’t made the list of pride or even joy. How could it when he had done nothing to prove himself otherwise?_ _A tear slipped down her face and he couldn’t bear it. Not for another moment could he bear the sight of her or this damned mating bond. There was too much time and space between their souls. It didn’t matter if he ruled for another thousand years, their hearts would never click into place. He didn’t necessarily care, but- he knew she had secretly dreamt of it only to be given a high fae bastard as her Cauldron-sent blessing. Pushing back a loose lock of her hair, he wiped the tear away with his thumb._

_ “Will you stay with the boy?” He asked. _

_ “What?” She gasped, lifting her watery eyes to him. “Stay? In Windhaven?” _

_ “Would this appease my lady?”  _

_ “But…”  _

_ She didn’t exactly have an excuse  _ not _ to stay, but she made a good show of being at a loss for words, if only to keep from wounding him. He had lived long enough to recognize a trapped animal when he saw one. And though he had hopefully proved to her that she was no animal, she was a creature of beauty and freedom and being shackled to him was not a blessing, it was a curse. Perhaps tossing Rhysand into the Illyrian fighting rings wouldn’t yield so awful a result, he hoped. A High Lord’s son being trained like the rest of the young whelps might just win over the masses for his future armies. He calculated the many pathways this could lead, then cupped his mates jaw in his palm.  _

_ “Stay with Rhys and be his tutor. When he is not training, he is studying. When he is not sleeping, he is studying. If he becomes injured or bedridden, he studies. Am I understood?” When she was too stunned to even nod, he added, “Our son has great and terrible power. He needs to learn that it is not some child’s play thing. It is a kingly gift that others would kill for. I have seen it before with others who only possessed a fraction of what our boy has. There has only been one king in Prythian’s history, but if Rhysand manifests this power into greatness we could be raising the second High King of Prythian.” _

_ “What are you saying?” She trembled.  _

_ “What I am telling you is do not underestimate the power of my side.” He said, stepping closer to her. “The Illyrian power is raw and primal, but the magic from a pure high fae bloodline could hold a great many things. It could tear him apart if he isn’t careful. It could tear entire kingdoms to shreds with the blink of an eye or a sneeze. Rhysand does not just have power. Rhysand  _ is _ power. So when I ask you to stay with him, I am asking a warrior to stay with him, to guide him, because I will not have it any other way. It has to be you and only you, am I understood?” _

_ That time she nodded, faintly, and he stepped out of their enclosed intimacy. As he turned away from her, he could feel the sudden release of tension through the bond. It named itself freedom and it felt as wide as the sky and endless like the ocean. His chest screamed to cave in on himself, but he would not yield. He would not hint the smallest reaction to the mating bond even if her soul erupted with glee. With the wave of his hand, his furniture and book reappeared with a fresh cup of steaming hot tea.  _

_ “You… you think Rhys could be king someday? King of Pyrthian?” She trembled.  _

_ The High Lord of Night reached down for his book, turning the chapters back and forth until he found his porper page.  _

_ “There is no doubt in my mind that our son will be named majesty before he reaches half my age.”  _

Majesty. Majesty. Again the words rippled and echoed until the Bone Carver’s slithering voice broke whatever memory had been revealed to Rhys through time and shadow. 

“It is rude,  _ Majesties _ , to speak when no one can hear you.”

_ Not just any boy, then.  _

_ No, not just any boy. _

_ Majesties. _

Rhysand’s eyes flew open to the sound of morning birds chirping in the bush below his bedroom window. 

_ Rhysand does not just have power. Rhysand is power.  _

The words his father spoke shifted into Amren’s small scolding from his office.

“Why do you shy from the power that is your birthright?” She snapped, trying her damndest to advise him.

With the Made swords slowly rotating in the air above them, Rhys coiled his magic around them ever tighter, as if he were squeezing them in his fists. 

“I did nothing to earn that power. I was born with it.”  _ You have done nothing, nothing to prove yourself otherwise.  _

“We are weakened.” Azriel had added.

“I will not be High King.” Rhys snarled. “I will not consider it, not today and not in a century.” 

Amren had looked to the great sword then, her voice wise and ancient. “Then explain to me why, after thousands of years, objects that once crowned and aided the old Fae have returned?”

Rhys couldn’t bring himself to shift on the bed, not as his thoughts confronted him one after another. The words from his dreams, the past and the present jumbled together in his ears, pelting him. 

_ Do you understand how rare it is? I cannot accept that and you know it! You’re insufferable. I will not entertain this ridiculous notion for another moment. It was a fluke. Nothing is a fluke. The last time a High King ruled Prythian, it was with a magic sword in his hand. Tell me that is not a sign from the Cauldron itself. Why do you want me to turn conqueror? I do not want to be High King. I only wish to be here, with my mate and my people. Amarantha could be short-sighted. But you, Rhysand, are not. _

_...we could be raising the second High King of Prythian. _

A single tear rolled down Rhysand’s face, immediately flooding his ear. 

_ Our son has great and terrible power. He needs to learn that it is not some child’s play thing. It is a kingly gift that others would kill for. It is a tool to defend my people, not to attack others. It’s heavy, in a way it should not be. Like it’s fighting against my magic.  _

More tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away then pressed the heels of his palms there to keep himself from losing it completely. Not with Feyre still sleeping so soundly. 

“I didn’t realize how much hope I’d been holding onto until I saw the pity and fear in their faces.” Rhys had told his brothers about his visit to Drakon and Miryam. 

“Very well then, Rhysand.” Amren said, turning from his desk that day in his office. “But know that the Cauldron’s benevolence will be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to another.” 

Remembering his mother’s words, spoken to his sister in the womb, Rhys extended his leaded hand to the mound of blankets next to him on the bed. He rested it there, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Oh, my sweet child.” He quietly wept. “I love you so much.”

Unable to keep himself from shaking, he winnowed himself to the mountaintop just outside the cabin where he and Feyre had mated. The cabin painted with memory and love and happiness only to be looked upon with sorrow and such unrelenting guilt. He turned from it, in nothing but his black sleep shorts, and roared. He roared until the mountain shook beneath his feet and the forest below bowed to his surging magic. The only thing keeping the cabin intact were the wards set in place there long ago. Wards that barely held against the crackling of his magic or the swell of his voice as he fell to his knees in the snow and bitter cold, and wept. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this little one shot I could not stop obsessing over. The Bone Carver's scene after the battle of Adriata (ACOWAR) and the scene from Rhysand's office with the Made weapons (ACOSF) just fit so perfectly together. I couldn't resist a good side project. Can't wait to see what SJM has in store for us next!


End file.
